If you’ve never been down to New Orleans (or “N’Arlins” as it pronounced), especially down to the French Quarter which holds Burboun Street, then you truly haven’t lived. And by “haven’t lived”, I mean—you haven’t seen the streets overflow with a beautiful mix of booze, pee, trash, and throw up–only to be trounced upon by a horde of drunk people so thick, you can barely move.

The police need horses to get around, and even they shed a naughty smile at the flashing of flesh. Beads are as good as currency. There are no open container laws, no real closing times for bars, and certainly no carding IDs at the door. I mean, the place is like Outback Steak House—No rules. (And their Bloomin Onion is off the charts!)

And I must say, I was a tad skeptical of how crowded Bourbon Street would be post-Katrina, but I was pleasantly surprised to see it chaotically full. Fuller than I honestly ever imagined. People hanging like monkeys from every railing, and freaks of all sorts out to enjoy the fresh, tainted air.

So here are some highlights:

- We were walking on Bourbon Street, beads around are neck. And there’s a crowd around some rather attractive ladies—which means one thing—they are trading visions of their funbags for some beads. We, of course, go to see. And do.

And upon turning around, we slam right into this drunk older woman, an ugly late 40s, and of course yell “Show us your tits!” (that’s the anthem of the street). We weren’t serious…but she was. And she lifted up her shirt and held it there. It was a sight for saggy eyes. And as I tried to shove beads at her to get her to put her shirt back down, she pushed the beads away and scalded me:

“I’m just a French Quarter girl in a French Quarter world” . She would take no payment–as the horror on my face was apparently payment enough.

And after she said this, she released the shirt (thank god) and started to walk away. Now, she clearly didn’t care, but her right tit was still just hanging out of the sweater. Just bobbing out of her shirt. Walking down Burboun Street, one boob fully out and swaying. People scattered at the sight, babies started to cry in distant houses. One of the police horses fearfully shit at the site, and galloped off.

- I’m told that there is “topless bullriding” by the Duke. When I get there, all I see is drunk Southern frat boys hootin’ and hollarin’. No topless anything. Just drunk dudes yellin, “’Ey! Skeeter! Ride that bull like granpappy taught ya!” So I step up, and ride the bull. And I think I got a concussion on my second go.

- On Bourbon Street, I saw a sight of such amazing family bonding—such true love and parental connection–that i actually shed a tear at the tender moment. I saw a Father and Mother taking pictures of their 18 year old daughter flashing people. Yes, encouraging her. And capturing the moment. After a particularly good flash to a inebriated old war veteran, the young teen demanded, “Mom!! Did you get that?!!”. I think she did, sweety. We all did.

- So we were at an open bar, with a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street for New Years Eve. Right above the mayhem. It was a great spot, and you definitely want to be in a balcony for a night like this. It’s just too chaotic on the street. We brought two full shopping bags full of beads—and between trading them for boob shots and throwing them at people with stinkfaces—we wound up emptying out both bags into the greedy abyss below.

The crowd on the street really came to life during the countdown to the New Year. It was really cool actually. Drinks raised, everyone drunk, right in the heart of Bourbon Street. “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3…2…1!! Happy New Year!!”

And then the ball drops, people cheer—a few new years kisses around the room—And then there’s our Security Guard—pushing us all inside, “Get inside…Now! NOW! The Police reported gunshots! Inside. INSIDE!!”. Herding everyone back indoors. At the height of the celebration. In the middle of toasts and smooches…

Buzzzzzzzkill. Only in New Orleans do the locals celebrate like Patrick Swayze in Point Break by shooting their guns into the air. Gun control? Who needs it!

- Drive thru bars. A great invention by those crafty Orleanites. Traffic got your down? Loosing that precious buzz? Is it just taking too long to get to the bar? How about we serve them booze in the car! And why not? It’s not like its unsafe—I mean, they bend the straw so you couldn’t possibly drink it while driving. That would just be dangerous and illegal.

- Only on Bourbon Street can you see Parents stupid enough to actually bring young children out with them—at midnight, with drunk people screaming “Show me your tits!!” all around them—there they are, riding on Daddy’s shoulders. And I mean like 6 year old, impressionable children—out in the middle of Bourbon Street debauchery. Their little hands groping for beads. Such innocence. Being trampled by there drunk parents–where the Dad is showing his ass because he feels left out and wants some beads too.

Maybe my parents just read the wrong Parenting book…

- Basically, there is really only two things to do in New Orleans: Eat and Drink. And preferably, do both in excess. (or INXS, for you hipsters). If you’re not doing one or the other, than your either watching TV or dead. And you better be dead, because there’s no excuse for not boozing while your boob-tubin’.

To prove this point, I took a trip down to Bourbon Street during the day. You know, when the sun was shining? And it was a ghost town. There really isn’t anything to do. It’s empty. And clean. And almost everything’s closed. So we went into a bar—the only one with live music before 5pm—and had a beer. But hey, i got to watch a singer who called himself Dr. Lube croon the blues to some old drunken hags. He was like KY in motion.

So what did I learn in New Orleans? Well, first and foremost, it was the most intense, painful Adam Weekend I’d ever experienced. Secondly, drinking and gunplay don’t necessarily need to be separate entities. And lastly, there’s no such thing as bad parenting. Just ask to see the picture of the teenager flashing with her parents proudly smiling behind her. She’s a just a French Quarter girl in a Frech Quarter world.